All Parisian laundromats look like this. They are like an acid-trip into Mondrian-land. Fluorescent lights flicker. Cycles spin. First-timers fumble at the coin slots. Polygons complete with circles. Glamorous Parisians glare at other people and stare into the vortex of the washing machines. Mysteries of French intellectual life - le nouveau roman, existentialism, deconstruction, l'ecriture feminin - make sense. Clothes get washed.
You'll never get information like this from guidebooks, will you?
1 comment:
Did I mention already, I'm thinking of calling my first-born Laundrette? Happily for her, she remains hypothetical.
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